He had been on his way to see his opera singer that evening—Callie was sure of it—and there was no question that she was no match for the Greek beauty. He could not be attracted to her.
She faced herself in the looking glass, cataloging her flaws: her brown hair, so very common and uninteresting; her too-large brown eyes; her round face, so unlike the heart-shaped faces of the beauties of the ton; her too-wide mouth, not at all the perfect bow that it should have been. With each feature, she considered the women to whom Ralston had been linked before, all Helens of Troy, with faces that stopped men in their tracks.
He had left her and gone to his mistress, who had most definitely welcomed him with open arms. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t?
And Callie had returned home to her cold, empty bed…and dreamed of the impossible.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and Callie tried to dash them away before Anne could see, but soon they were coming fast, on top of each other, and she couldn’t hide her sadness. She sniffled, drawing attention from the maid, who, with one look, stopped combing and crouched low next to her lady.
Callie allowed the older woman to put her arms around her, and she placed her head upon Anne’s shoulder and allowed the tears to come. She sobbed into the rough wool of the maid’s gown, exposing the sadness that had consumed her for years. Through a decade of seasons, the weddings of all of her friends, Mariana’s betrothal—a decade of being moved higher and higher upon the shelf—she had hidden her sorrow, refusing to allow her regret to shadow the happiness of others.
But now, with Ralston wreaking havoc on her senses and reminding her of everything she had always wanted and would never have, it was too much. She could no longer hold it in.
She cried for long minutes, Anne murmuring soothing sounds as she stroked Callie’s back. When she was done, unable to find the energy to continue with tears, Callie sat up straight, pulling back from Anne and offering a watery smile of self-conscious thanks. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“Oh, Callie-mine,” Anne said, her voice taking on the tone she’d used when Callie was a little girl and crying over some injustice, “your white knight, he will come.”
One side of Callie’s mouth kicked up in a wry smile. Anne had said the words countless times over the last two decades. “Forgive me, Anne, but I’m not so certain that he will.”
“Oh, he will,” Anne said firmly. “And when you least expect.”
“I find I’m rather tired of waiting.” Callie laughed halfheartedly. “Which is probably why I’ve turned my attentions to such a dark knight.”
Anne cupped Callie’s cheek in her hand with a smile. “I think I’d rather see you ticking off items on your ridiculous list than keeping company with Ralston. I should steer clear of him if I were you.”
“Easier said than done,” Callie said. There was something so very compelling about the man—it didn’t seem to matter that he infuriated her. To the contrary, his arrogance only served to make him more attractive. She sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should steer clear of Ralston and focus on my list again.” She lifted the list from the dressing table, where she’d set it earlier that evening. “Of course, it appears I’m rather out of simple tasks.”
Anne gave a little grunt of disbelief before saying dryly, “Of course, because drinking at a tavern makes for a perfectly simple outing. What’s left?”
“Fencing, attending a duel, firing a pistol, gambling at a gentlemen’s club, and riding astride,” she said, leaving off the rest of the items—the items that she was embarrassed to share with even her closest confidant.
“Hmm. That is a challenge.”
“Indeed,” Callie said distractedly, biting her bottom lip and considering the paper.
“One thing is for sure, however,” Anne said.
“What’s that?”
“No matter which of those things you tackle next, no one will call you a coward for doing them.”
Callie met Anne’s eyes at the words, and, after a beat of surprised silence, the two women laughed.
“Oof!” Callie grasped the bedpost firmly as Anne tugged on the length of linen that she was wrapping around Callie’s torso. “I think you could be slightly more gentle, Anne.”
“Likely so,” the maid said, passing the fabric under Callie’s arms and arranging it flat against her br**sts, “but I am not feeling very gentle at the moment.”
Callie looked down at her fast-reducing bosom and smiled through the discomfort. “Yes, well, I appreciate your putting those feelings aside to assist me.”
Anne responded with a grunt of displeasure and a harsh yank on the linen. She shook her head as she worked. “Binding your br**sts and dressing like a man…I think you’ve gone mad.”
“Nonsense. I’m simply trying something new.”
“Something that would give your mother the vapors if she knew.”
Callie turned her head sharply toward the maid. “Which she won’t.”
“You cannot be thinking I would tell her,” Anne said, outraged, “I’d lose my position before the words were out!”
“Not if she had a fit of the vapors beforehand,” Callie teased.
It was late in the afternoon, and Callie and Anne had sequestered themselves in Callie’s bedchamber to prepare her to tackle the next item on her list—fencing.
Callie had worked out an elaborate plan to gain entrance to Benedick’s fencing club, disguised as a young dandy, just out of university, and looking for a new sporting ground. She had practiced deepening her voice and developed a background story for her character—Sir Marcus Breton, a baronet from the Lake District. She’d had Anne pilfer some old clothes from Benedick’s wardrobe, including a fencing suit that would not be missed, and the two women had spent a week altering the clothes to fit Callie.